


those who from the Pit of Hell, roam to seek their prey on earth

by tomlinvelvet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Bottom Louis, Crime Solving, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Forbidden Love, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Happy Halloween!, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Older Harry, Period-Typical Homophobia, Science Experiments, Suicidal Thoughts, Thriller, Top Harry, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27211309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlinvelvet/pseuds/tomlinvelvet
Summary: 1889. Louis Tomlinson is a student at the prestigious Harrow School for Boys, nurturing his passion for forensic medicine under the care of a particularly mysterious and dark teacher, Harry Styles, who has set his main focus on a series of gruesome murders, all of them reflecting the year 1888, when Jack the Ripper went rampant in the poor streets of Whitechapel.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 49
Kudos: 162





	1. "BELIAL came last, then whom a Spirit more lewd, Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love"

**Author's Note:**

> edit as of March 2, 2021: I had to remove the visuals, which I am incredibly sad about, but I was forced to remove them because the links broke! I’m so sorry.
> 
> happy halloween lovelies!  
> I hope you guys like this. I'm quite proud of how this fic turned out.  
> Please know that Louis is eighteen years old and Harry is nearing twenty-eight.  
>  **TRIGGER WARNINGS: blood, gore, murder, graphic depictions of cutting, opening up dead bodies... it's full of horror. I scared myself writing this. There are visual representations of blood, and the viscera of an animal. It's a semi-visual fic. For the last chapter I made up literally everything scientific mentioned in there, call it world-building. Be careful before proceeding, and if you have any questions, you can contact me through tumblr before reading:**[tomlinvelvetfics](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tomlinvelvetfics)  
> Title of the fic and chapters are taken from _Paradise Lost_ by John Milton. For the fic title I modified the line so that 'roaming' becomes 'to roam'.
> 
> [RUSSIAN TRANSLATION](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10154223)

[those who from the Pit of Hell, roam to seek their prey on earth — fic post.](https://tomlinvelvetfics.tumblr.com/post/633533531972354048/those-who-from-the-pit-of-hell-roam-to-seek-their)

The body lies cold and unmoving over the sterilized steel table. Louis puts his thumb and forefinger over its breastbone, spreading the skin taut, and without hesitating, although the hovering presence of his teacher behind him should be an impediment to his focus, he presses down the clean blade, dragging it from one shoulder to the sternum, creating a deep gash. He repeats the process from the other shoulder, nearly staggering back when a sickeningly sweet smell wafts up into the air from the incisions. The corpse isn’t as fresh as the others, he thinks absently, as the cold breath of Harry Styles falls upon his neck, the taller man smiling maniacally when Louis glances over.

“Well done, Louis,” Mr. Styles says, circling the table, his eyes never leaving the body. Louis doesn’t usually look too much at the face of the people he opens up. They’re experiments, and he’s learnt a while ago to picture them as such. The experiment may turn out to be a young man that has lost its life far too early, and even if there’s sometimes the flitting thought that one day, Louis might end up on one of those tables, it never breaks through to the surface layer, and his face remains impassive.

Mr. Styles doesn’t say anything, instead settling his dark gaze on Louis, waiting, expectant. Louis knows what he has to do. Grabbing the bottle of antiseptic and uncorking it, he pours the carbolic acid on a clean cloth, then cleans the blade he has just used. Then it joins its companions on the little steel table, watching as Louis chooses another blade, longer and thinner. Deadlier. With a quick glance at Mr. Styles, he finds his teacher still watching him. Louis can’t tell whether the shiver that passes through his body is from the dropping temperature of the room, or from the darkness that perpetually dwells within those green irises.

Wordlessly, Louis puts down the blade on the table, within arm’s reach, and digs his hands inside the dead body, his fingers gripping either side of the man’s rib cage. The rib cage is too hard to be cut, so it has to be broken, which Louis does in a precise, quick move, exposing the heart and the rest of the viscera. The odour is so foul now that Louis almost regrets not taking a breathing apparatus, but his attention quickly shifts away from the unpleasantness when he grabs the blade and, after feeling around the squishy membranes for the organ he’s looking for, quickly cuts the liver free from its rightful place. When Louis pulls it out, his gloved hands are dirtied with mucus and darkened, gooey blood, which no longer disgusts him. Not even the damaged liver is enough to stir something within him. He’s seen too much and done too much, even at the tender age of eighteen.

Louis drops the liver delicately on a plate, and takes his time looking at it, mentally noting every significant information.

Mr. Styles watches him with twinkling eyes.

“It appears that man died of cirrhosis,” Louis begins, pointing at the scars marring the organ. “He’s been slowly dying for several years, no doubt from excessive drinking. In other words, he has been suffering from chronic liver failure.”

Louis walks to the head of the man, and after quickly wiping his dirty gloves, he pulls back one of the man’s eyelids. “There’s slight yellowing around the white of his eyes, furthering my suspicion of chronic liver failure, and I might go as far as deducing the juvenile appearance of jaundice, which leads me to believe a cancer was starting to settle in the organ. The man died before it could fully develop.”

Louis then pushes apart the man’s lips, revealing the gums. He nods to himself. “Further evidence for ARLD can be found right here. His gums appear to be unnaturally scarred, probably from bleeding on a daily basis, confirming my initial thought, since bleeding gums are a sure symptom of ARLD.”

Louis straightens up, carrying on without once looking up into Harry Styles’ face.

“From the information given to me, several years ago the man weighed a hundred and ninety-eight point five pounds, which is a healthy weigh for a man of his height, but he had gradually dropped to a hundred and forty-three pounds despite his relatives confirming his diet never changed.”

He moves back to his original position, holding back from grimacing as he rearranges the skin of the man’s abdomen.

“At last, there is evident swelling in the man’s abdomen and legs, yet another symptom of ARLD including weight loss.”

Taking a single step backward, Louis finally allows himself to look up, his eyes instantly meeting Harry’s. They’re still twinkling, and there’s a pleased grin on Mr. Styles’ handsome face, a grin which makes Louis relax slightly. With long and ringed fingers, Harry strokes his sharp jaw, his eyes going between Louis and the body.

“Well done, Louis,” he says at last, appraising eyes taking in every single detail. Louis has to swallow down his bubbling happiness. Clasping his hands before himself, Louis waits to be dismissed, but instead Harry turns around, grabbing a needle and a surgical thread.

“Can you stitch the body up?” Harry asks, holding the needle out for Louis to take. Louis doesn’t show it, but he’s surprised. This part of the process is not included in his exam.

Still, he nods and takes the needle and the thread. Pouring more antiseptic over the cloth, Louis wets the end of the thread so it’s easier to make it go through the needle. Once this is done, Louis walks closer to the body, his slippers lightly crunching sawdust. He is glad his cuts are perfect and clean, because it’s easy to pierce the skin and work his way up, gradually closing up the body.

When he’s done, he doesn’t have time to admire his handiwork. Harry gestures for the door, and Louis starts to walk towards it, ignoring the body heat coming from Harry as the taller man falls into steps behind him. There’s something particularly hot over his lower back, and Louis’ eyes widen slightly thinking that maybe, _maybe,_ Harry will put his hand there, a place that’s rather intimate. No such thing happens, of course. Louis walks through the door, glancing over his shoulder at Harry as the man stands tall, calling for the next student.

Mr. Styles grabs a single sheet of paper from his briefcase, handing it to Louis like he has done with the students that were called before Louis. Taking it, Louis glances curiously down at the thin paper. A stanza is printed on one side while the other side is filled with black ink, and despite how much he wants to read the new assignment his teacher has given to him, he still folds it carefully in half, sliding it in the inside pocket of his white blouse. 

Louis turns around and doesn’t look back as he goes to the facilities, even if he can feel Harry’s eyes lingering on his back the entire time.


	2. "Vice for it self: To him no Temple stood"

Louis lets out a shuddering breath as the body on top of him moves faster, hips pushing unforgivingly against his pelvis, the hard and hot length inside of him nearly bulging out to make its shape known against the tender surface of his lower belly. There are bruises already blooming all over his body, especially on his neck, where Harry’s face is buried.

 _“Fuck,_ ” he breathes out, his legs shaking on either side of Harry’s hips as Harry bites particularly hard on his jugular, the pain shooting down his torso and straight to his cock. He has long since learnt not to be embarrassed by how quickly he comes whenever he offers his body up to Harry’s lethal hands.

Hot, white liquid splashes over his belly button, the sheer force of it sending several droplets up to his nipples, which Harry instantly laps up with a clever, cheeky tongue. Harry’s dark eyes glance all over his face, the green irises almost completely pitch black. It never fails to turn Louis on, seeing the feral look Harry gets whenever he’s fucking Louis. Harry ducks his head and their lips meet, and it’s not sweet or delicate, the way they kiss.

Their kisses are bruising and dirty, a fight their tongues undergo. Louis rarely wins, though he doesn’t complain. Harry kisses like some kind of god, his long tongue reaching deep inside of Louis’ mouth, lapping up the taste that's stuck to the roof of Louis' mouth like some starved man. Their kisses make Louis’ toes curl on themselves, and send his heart into a frantic rhythm that only calms down hours after Harry has left.

Harry pulls back, a single thread of saliva connecting their lips. It slowly breaks up and Louis blinks his wet blue eyes up, watching as Harry’s face relaxes and a genuine, soft smile makes his dimples appear.

He’s so lovely, Louis thinks. So out of reach, maybe, but still so lovely.

Harry pulls out after coming, filling Louis up in the most wondrous way. They take their time calming down, the lovely orange glow of the overhead chandelier bathing them in a false-sense of tranquility. There’s nothing peaceful about what they’re doing. The house they’re in is so big that no noises reach them, but Louis knows that downstairs, his parents gathered in the living room, drinking tea and gossiping. His older brother is somewhere in the music room, fooling around with yet another instrument he’s unable to master. The maids are frantically walking up and down the corridors doing god-knows-what. There’s nothing true about the safety Louis is able to trick himself into believing exist, not when his relationship with Harry is forbidden, and not when he’s risking his life for the adrenaline he always gets whenever Harry slips into the shadow and climbs up to his window.

It’s worth it, though. Dangerous, undoubtedly, but that danger tastes as sweet as the desserts Louis eats every night. Louis closes his eyes as Harry’s fingers never leave his skin, as Harry keeps raining soft kisses all over his shoulders, showering him with the kind of love he’s always desired.

“You did amazing today,” Harry mumbles against his skin, burning hot breath spreading the fire Louis already feels after losing himself to pleasure for nearly an hour. Louis can’t help but smile at the compliment, turning his head to be able to look at Harry’s face.

“We promised to never talk about class when we are together,” Louis replies, his voice low, and with gentle fingers Louis reaches up, passing them through Harry’s sweat-damp hair. Harry offers him a little knowing smirk.

They agreed to never talk about school when they aren't within the strict and prestigious walls of Harrow School. They’re just Louis and Harry whenever they spend their time together, and within the four walls of the classroom or the laboratory, Louis is Louis the student and Harry Mr. Styles the teacher. Louis was adamant that them being lovers must not influence Harry's judgement of Louis' capabilities as a student. He has made it clear that Harry is to treat him like any other student and remain objective. If he’s shit, he’s shit. If he aces his exams, then he deserves to have his name within the records of the school.

Louis gives Harry a pointed look before closing his eyes and letting himself enjoy Harry’s fingers as they caress his back, up and down, back and forth. It doesn’t take long before he feels his eyelids grow heavy.

The body behind him shifts, and the mattress quickly grows cold as Harry gets up and starts to dress up.

“Stay,” Louis mumbles, his face pressed against the pillow. He always asks the same thing, but he never gets it. He knows Harry can’t stay.

There’s a lingering kiss dropped onto his forehead.

“Sleep well, baby,” Harry whispers, caressing Louis’ cheek tenderly.

Then he’s gone, the curtains flying along the chill breeze of the night, and Louis already misses him.  
  


-

  
The Tomlinson mansion grows eerily silent whenever Nathanael, Louis' older brother, strolls through the double doors, disappearing along the cold breeze of a December night. Since he doesn't have anyone to talk to besides Nathanael, Louis locks himself inside the library, which is the only room, other than his bedroom, that he can bear to stay in for more than an hour. The living room is overtaken by his overbearing mother, and the first floor is a big-no since it hosts his father's, Lord Tomlinson, office. Wordlessly, the maid that has been cleaning the shelves packed to the brim with books leave the room, bowing her head to Louis, who jerks his head somewhat haphazardly. He stays rooted to the spot until the door clicks shut gently, then he hurries over to the old settee, sitting down, apprehension making the tip of his fingers tickle.

Maybe it would be more pertinent to look at his assignment in his bedroom, where he's sure to not be bothered, but the library offers a much more peaceful atmosphere and might act upon his mood, especially if whatever Harry has given him to do ends up twisting his guts in the most painful, and yet delicious, way. Louis unfolds the paper and smooths it out, his eyes scanning the few words written on the recto.

_Jamie Pouldron_

_47 years old_

_Died 12, December._

_Time estimated: around midnight._

_**Assignment:** find out how Jamie Pouldron died. A clue: no major arteries were damaged._

Frowning, Louis finally flips the paper around, turning it so that he can see the photo in its entirety. The sight that welcomes him would have disgusted anyone, but after two years of opening up dead bodies and examining them, being faced with a close-up of a slashed throat does absolutely nothing to him. Instead, he brings his face even closer to the contrasted picture, and he immediately spots the oddness of the wound. Louis grabs his notebook, uncaps his fountain pen using his mouth and sketches with care what he can see, jotting down a few notes to make sure everything that goes through his mind as he thinks, and is relevant, is not forgotten. His handwriting is messy as ideas filter through his head.

The man's neck isn't thin, and his jawline is sharp as glass. Judging from these elements alone, Jamie Pouldron must have been rather tall, and strong, meaning either the murderer was equally as tall and strong, or maybe less built but quick on the feet. The more Louis stares at the picture, the more obvious it becomes that the wound on Pouldron's neck is superficial. It doesn't span horizontally over the entire length of the throat, but rather on the left side of it, stands a rather long and thin gash that Louis is pretty sure has only gone through the tissues, but hasn't even cut through the superficial fascia. 

How did Jamie Pouldron die? Louis leans back against the cushion, biting the butt of his expensive pen, his eyes scanning the chaotic pages of his sketchbook. Louis won't get anywhere with only a picture of the man's neck, he knows that. He needs to find a way to get to the body and inspect it more thoroughly, or pray that the newspaper will be revealing enough about the outcome of the autopsy. Louis rubs his temple and stands up, his knees popping in a sickening sound which echoes around the time-frozen library. The night has settled by then, the clouds blocking the stars and the moon from shining through and upon the streets of London. He closes his notebook and hides it underneath his shirt lest someone will ask to see it once outside, and he carefully steps out of the giant room and into the equally big corridor. 

Not a single soul is in sight, which is a relief to Louis, and on his tiptoes he makes his way up to his bedroom, being careful on the stairs. He doesn't need them to creak and reveal his presence. In the distance he can hear his mother's shrill laugh, and his father's booming voice. Even further there's the clicking of tea cups as they are put onto saucers and the hushed whispers of the maids as they try to get everything ready for dinner. Louis wants to throw a tantrum at the prospect of having to go down and sit at a ridiculously large table and listen to his mother gushes about the latest fashionable gossips or his father complains about Louis not wanting to join the family business. Every single dinner is the same thing.

He hopes whatever superior force up above watching over them, will be kind enough to have Nathanael join them. He knows he will lose his mind without at least the company of his brother.

He hums as he pushes the door of his bedroom closed, using his hips, then he jogs to his desk. Books are stacked against the wall and papers are covering every single inch of rosewood. He puts down his notebook on his bed and starts to collect the loose sheets, organizing them by themes, and he slides them into files. He knows he should be more careful. Although his parents never come in his bedroom, giving him at least a bit of intimacy, he's never safe from his mother coming in and glancing at his desk and seeing all of his essays about the autopsies he carried out. She would most likely go into cardiac arrest, and his father would describe him as immoral. The thought makes him chuckle, and once his desk looks more like a desk and less like a storm has trashed it, he changes into more formal clothes. Before stepping again out of his bedroom, he opens his windows.

He always does it, in case Harry wants to come see him.

His mother spots him first, being seated face to the door, and she squeals as he rounds the table and kisses her on the cheek. He nods at his father, who has his nose deep inside a newspaper, chewing on a piece of carrot. Louis doesn't bother asking for the newspaper, knowing fully well that there's nothing about Jamie Pouldron. Harry tends to find information illegally, and Louis isn't surprised that Harry has gotten his hands on the murder when it still hasn't been made public knowledge. He takes a seat next to his mother, smiling brightly when his eyes land on Nathanael, who is sitting across from him. His blond hair spikes up in all directions, and his shirt is slightly unbuttoned. He knows for a fact Mother has already called Nathanael out on improper conduct.

"Darling," Rose Marie, his mother, sighs, turning her body halfway to look at him better. "I feel like I haven't seen you in centuries! What have you been up to?"

Louis tries not to flush, and manages quite easily to smooth out the lines of his face until they're neutral. He is trying to come up with a great excuse as to why he hasn't spent the last few days in the mansion. Truth is, he has been staying over at Harry's, and those nights have been the most amazing ones he has experienced. Harry is perfectly compatible to Louis in every single way, and besides being physically everything Louis has ever wanted in a partner, Harry is clever, witty, goofy and such a pleasure to be around. He makes Louis feel.. feel like himself, and it's something he's never felt before. Nathanael is the second person in his life to understand him properly, but even then it doesn't rival Harry.

Wetting his lips, he opens his napkin and spreads it over his lap, taking his fork and thanking the maid that brings his plate. He hates lying, he truly does, but sometimes that's the only thing keeping him alive.

"A particularly challenging exam is coming up, and I've been staying up late at Harrow's library because the scientific book section is better," Louis tells his mother through a mouthful of potatoes. It's not totally a lie, Harrow School does offer an amazing collection of scientific textbooks and essays from all around the world that have, more than once, helped Louis write his own essays. And if he hasn't been to the school library in well over a month, then no one is the wiser.

"You can always order these books of yours that you need, love, you know that," his mother offers, the tone of her voice so incredibly gentle that Louis can't help himself from taking her hand and squeezing it in gratitude. A loud cough startles him, and he watches as his father drown half a glass of wine, patting his chest. Nathanael bears an amused smirk.

"Don't pass out on us, Father," he mocks, jerking his fork at Lord Tomlinson's plate. "I doubt you fancy falling face first into Marilla's lovely mash potatoes. It's not nearly creamy enough to cushion your nose."

Louis, despite himself, burst out laughing while Lord Tomlinson curses, glaring at Nathanael. Even Rose Marie has to pretend cleaning her mouth with her handkerchief to hide her amused smile. Lord Tomlinson ends up sighing, leaning back against his chair.

"My health is starting to fail me," he groans, stroking his trimmed moustache. "Might finish six feet underground sooner than expected."

"Don't say that, dear," Rose Marie says, an edge to her voice. "Go easy with the wine."

Despite himself, Louis thinks back to the liver he dug out, and how damaged it was because of alcohol. He looks at his own glass of wine and pushes it away. No one speaks until they are all done eating, and Nathanael is the first one to stand up, drowning his glass of wine and giving Louis a knowing look as he eyes Louis' own full glass. He has to hold himself back from rolling his eyes at his older brother.

"I'm going to practice some more violin. Dear brother, would you like to join me?" 

Louis really adores Nathanael. Humming, he folds his napkin then pushes his chair back, nodding his good nights to his parents, then he walks past Nathanael, stepping out of the room. Neither of them say a word as they go up the stairs. The music room is a floor above Louis' bedroom, so Louis stops on the second floor and leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What?" Nathanael chuckles, his hands in his trousers' pockets. "You don't want to hear me play?"

Louis snorts. "Over my dead body."

"Speaking of dead bodies," Nathanael teases, tilting his head in thought. Then he frowns, his blue eyes meeting Louis'. "Please, tell me you're being careful."

Louis stiffens, his heart speeding up, and without a word he nods. 

"Don't worry, Nat," Louis whispers, his fingers gripping his own biceps. A flitter of sadness befalls Nathanael's face.

'It's my job to worry," are the last words Nathanael mutters before he's pressing a kiss to Louis' forehead and making his way up to the higher floor, to the music room. With the lingering heat of the kiss against his skin, Louis twists open his bedroom door and rushes to close it, leaning back against it and letting his body slide down. His clothed bottom hits the cold ground, and he takes several deep breaths to calm himself. 

He has no idea why he's feeling uneasy, but he wills himself to calm down. He glances around his empty room, sadness gripping his beating heart and squeezing it.

"Harry?" He whispers to the darkness, gulping when he doesn't get an answer. It's fine, he chants to himself. Sometimes, Harry can't come.

On shaky legs, Louis stands up and goes to the window, glancing out at the empty cobblestone streets. The night is pitch black, and the landscape is rapidly fogging up. His skin soaks the cold, his cheeks turning red under the aggression, but Louis stays rooted to the spot even though his fingers are starting to ache. He watches his breaths rise as new white-puffed clouds, fading away into the night, and through the faint blurry picture of the world they offer, he thinks he sees the glimmer of something that could be a silver blade. He shakes his head, his hands shaking by his side.

When he opens his eyes again, a cat darts back into a dark alley, and the glimmer is gone.


	3. "Or Altar smoak'd; yet who more oft then hee"

Something warm brushes against his lower belly, making goosebumps rack his body. He hums and leans back into the soft body behind him, chuckling when Harry noses along the side of his throat. A gentle kiss is dropped to his jaw, then a tongue licks over his pulse, and it's then that Louis opens his eyes. He blinks against the blue-tinted and frozen sunlight, glancing over his shoulder into Harry's bright, green eyes.

"Good morning," Louis drawls out, his sleepy voice sounding raspier than usual.

"Morning, baby," Harry answers, his voice deep and sleepy. It makes arousal pours in Louis' blood in giant dose, and giggling, he turns around and sits down over Harry's cock, which is covered by the sheet. Louis grinds down, smirking.

"Good morning to you too," he sing-songs, feeling the length underneath his ass fatten up. He positively _bathes_ in the fact he has so much control over Harry's body. With his long fingers, Harry reaches up, caressing Louis' chest, his thumb ghosting over Louis' right nipple. Biting his lips, Louis closes his eyes as Harry strokes the hardened bud, and Louis jerks when Harry sits up and puts his lips where his finger has been seconds ago. Louis throws his head back, a loud moan spilling from his lips. His eyes widen, thinking he's being too loud and a maid might walk by his door and hear him, but he frowns as he glances around.

He's at Harry's.

He doesn't remember getting there, but he doesn't fret too much over it. He knows he tends to black out from how much pleasure Harry gives him. His fingers sink into Harry's soft hair, and Louis buries his nose there, smelling Harry's hair product. The curly-haired man keeps biting and licking at his nipple, and he unconsciously starts to rock his hips back and forth, stroking Harry's hard cock as it fits perfectly between his bouncy ass cheeks. The sheet has pooled down to the bottom of the bed now, and Louis feels as precum drips from the tip of Harry's dick, wetting Louis' hole.

When Harry comes, white hot liquid shoots to Louis' balls, coating them, and slowly drips down to his rim. It doesn't take long for Louis to follow suit, especially when Harry's big hand closes around his cock, jerking him. They kiss messily, saliva coating their chins, making them sticky. They try to get their breathing under control afterwards, and Harry puts his forehead on Louis' chest while Louis cradles the back of Harry's head.

A quick glance at the grandfather clock mounted on the wall has Louis cradling Harry's cheeks and guiding Harry's lips to his own. There he presses several sweet kisses, feeling Harry smile against his mouth.

"Gotta go," Louis tells him, then with legs still trembling from his orgasm, he stands up, dragging his body out of the bed. A cheeky slap is given to his right ass cheek and he squeals, glancing over at a pleased-looking Harry.

"You have to get to class, too!" Louis calls as he enters the bathroom. Harry grumbles his answer, and though Louis doesn't make it out his laughs to himself fondly as he turns on the tap of the bath tube and checks for the right water temperature. He hums to himself, pleased when the water becomes on the right side of hot, steam starting to rise from the pool it creates at the bottom of the polished, pristine white surface. He's looking at the collection of body products Harry owns when a metallic smell hits him. It's faint, and Louis doubts he'd have noticed it had he already poured in the water, the lavender soap he's decided to use. He frowns and glances around.

The smell is like a throbbing itch underneath his skin. He goes to the sink and looks at himself, expecting blood on his face or just about anywhere, anything that would explain why he can distinctively pick out the fragrance of blood in Harry's bathroom. He sees nothing out of place, though, so he shakes his head and finishes preparing his bath. Bubbles form on the surface of the water, and he steps in gently, careful not to cause the water to fall off the edge and onto the clean ground.

It doesn't take long for the metallic smell to disappear, and with that Louis relaxes. It wouldn't surprise him if he had made it up. Spending most of his days within the four walls of a sterilised laboratory, which is home to corpses of all sizes and kinds, has made him wallow in a mixture of scents that most people don't ever encounter. He knows what a decaying corpse smells like, he knows every single stage of the decaying process (hell, he's _seen_ it) and the smell of blood has practically become a normality to him. The sight of it doesn't make him sick anymore, not when he has, more often than not, found himself arms deep within the guts of the dead.

He has just never smelled it within the sweet house of his boyfriend.

His occupied mind relaxes a bit the moment Harry steps in the bathroom and joins him. He's less delicate about it, and water sloshes everywhere as Harry drops his big body down, a knowing smile on his face as Louis shouts at him for getting water everywhere.

"Where's the fun then?" He says innocently, and Louis raises an eyebrow and uses his big toe to poke Harry in the stomach. Harry's long fingers close around his thin ankle, massaging the prominent bone, and Louis closes his eyes and leans his head back against the hard bath tube.

He decides he's not going to ask Harry about the smell. Knowing himself, it's most likely his brain playing tricks on him.  
  


-

  
Being careful with the blade, Louis presses it against the thin and delicate skin of the frog's belly. There isn't room for mistakes, and with his face entirely too close to the dead animal, he drags the sharp weapon down, creating a gash that's deep enough for the skin to pull apart, revealing the viscera. Using two tweezers, he pushes the skin further out of the way. The frog is fresh so there's no nauseating odour coming from it. He grabs his notebook and his pencil, and starts to sketch what he sees, trying to catch as many details as possible.

From the corner of his eyes, he spots Harry talking to a fellow student. He's nodding along to what the boy — Jace, if Louis remembers correctly — is saying, while glancing down at the dead animal over the table. Louis bites his lips and snaps his attention back to the female frog, noting that she seems rather healthy, and is quite young from what he is gathering, no more than a year old. He adds shadows when he must, then he puts his notebook down and grabs the blade once again. This time, he removes the skin from the frog's right leg, exposing the tissues. He's about to pick up his notebook again and sketch what he can see when a body slides next to his.

"Impressive," a voice says, and a quick glance to the side has Louis known it is Nick. They often sit next to one another, though they've exchanged only a handful of words since the beginning of the year. Louis looks at his drawing, and smirk to himself. He does draw rather well.

"Thanks," he breathes out, his hand moving once again across the page to draw the webbed toes of the animal. Nick doesn't say anything after that, though he remains into Louis' workspace, which Louis doesn't appreciate. He likes being on his own when working, and he can tolerate having Harry supervizing what he does, but anyone else only gets on his nerves. He doesn't right away ask Nick to fuck off, waiting for the man to take a hint and go back to his own work station, but nothing of the sort happens. Instead, Nick steps even closer, practically crowding Louis against the wall. 

Louis can feel Harry's eyes on him. He sighs and is about to open his mouth, but Nick beats him to it.

"Pardon my indiscretion," Nick whispers, his eyes dancing with mirth. "I wanted to ask, what is your assignment? I know we're not supposed to ask about it, seeing as it's personal and all that, but I just want to make sure Mr. Styles treats _every_ student equally."

Time seems to stop for a second, just as Louis' heart freezes. He feels bile rises up his throat, and his guts twist in pain. He keeps his eyes on the dead frog, his hand still over the page of the notebook. Slowly, he turns his head and meets Nick's eyes. He watches those brown eyes glint dangerously, and Louis is about to puke and seriously panic when a shadow falls upon his face, and Harry stands tall before them both, his eyes narrowing at Nick.

"Why aren't you at your work station," Harry asks calmly, his voice low. Louis sees Nick stiffens, but other than that the student doesn't stop smiling. _He knows._ Louis doesn't know how, has no idea of how that is even possible, but the bastard knows. Taking a deep breath, Louis continues sketching, though his fingers shake slightly. 

"Just admiring Louis' stunning _coup de crayon,"_ Nick shows his teeth as his smile turns even more malicious. "Mr. Styles."

He whirls around and walks back to the dead rabbit laying in its own pool of blood. Louis doesn't dare following the scoundrel with his eyes, scared that he might use the blade in a completely inappropriate way. His digits are still shaking, and surely not because of the low temperature of the room. His blank eyes stare into the irises of the dead frog, and wordlessly he picks up his pen and goes back to sketching, though his feelings pour themselves over the lines he traces. 

"Calm down, Louis," Harry whispers, his words being heard only by Louis. Louis wants to chuckle, because how? How is he supposed to relax when one of his fellow students is aware of his illegal relationship with his teacher? If Nick so much as opens his mouth, Harry will lose his job, Louis will be thrown out of the school, and they both will end up rotting against the damp and horror-stricken walls of a cell. Harry is aware of it, and yet the curly-haired man remains perfectly collected, glancing down at Louis' sketch.

"This looks amazing," Harry tells him, humming in appreciation. "Keep up the good work."

With blurry eyes Louis watches as Harry goes back to assisting another student. He straightens up and tries his hardest to go back to his work, but he feels as if his guts had wrapped themselves around his heart, chocking the substantial organ until his limbs grow weak, and his breathe goes out. He's panicking, and abandoning his things he rushes out of the room, embracing the darkness of the corridor and the quietness. 

He closes his eyes as hard as he possibly can, sliding down the wall, his bottom hitting the cold ground. Despite white spots dancing underneath his eyelids, he can still see, clear as day, the wicked glint within Nick' eyes.


	4. "In Temples and at Altars, when the Priest Turns Atheist, as did ELY's Sons"

The newspaper he is holding smells freshly printed, the thin sheets still hot, the ink leaving a trail of black dust as his fingers ghost over the printed words.

_Nick Bennett, eighteen years old, found dead in the East-end._

A tremor racks his body, and a shiver goes down his spine, freezing the bones and turning his blood into melted ice. His bottom lip trembles as he bites back a sob, staggering back into his bed. He reads the words again and again, until the letters begin to trample all over one another. A bird settles on his window still, its fat little belly rising as it breathes. Louis looks at it, the newspapers clutched to his chest. The melodious, rhythmic cheeping of the birdy fills a hole in his brain, alongside the dread that slowly, but surely, taints his thoughts.

_His throat slashed on the left side._

How has Nick Bennett fallen to the career murderer's hand? What was he doing in Whitechapel? Nick comes from wealth. His surname is well-respected and known amongst the elite. And although they were not friends, Louis has attended many parties alongside Nick, he's seen the young man laughing and smiling and eating petit fours and even playing with children. He's not a faceless man like Jamie Pouldron was, and with the latter Louis could think about the murder without a single drop of emotions clouding his analyses. But Nick? He _knew_ Nick.

He finds himself ripping away the sheets on which the article is printed, folding them and sliding them in his waistcoat. The bird is still singing away, hopping on two thin feet as the cold seems ineffective on the small, warm living organism. A little, sad smile makes the corners of Louis' mouth go up, and on that he thrusts his feet in a pair of boots, puts on his frock coat, and steps out of his bedroom, his hat low over his forehead. 

Rain starts falling outside as he takes his last step down the main stairs. A maid walks by, holding a tray adorned with tea cups and Huntley and Palmers biscuits on an antique china plate. She doesn't acknowledge him, her focus set on serving the tea while it's still steaming hot, and Louis gracefully slips through the crack of the main doors, making sure to let it click shut softly behind him by using the sole of his right foot. Outside, the gardens spread out, frozen and cold and covered with a layer of snow. He doesn't walk down the main path, but instead rounds the back of the Tomlinson residence, looking once, twice around him before climbing up the wall of the stone fence.

The cold stones bite at his fingertips, his skin turning red under the aggression, and he half regrets not sliding on leather gloves. He manages to make it to the other side solely thanks to all the times before he had climbed up this fence to sneak out, when staying confined to the four walls of his bedroom was too much for him to bear. His feet hit the ground a bit too hard, and he staggers backwards, falling on his arse. He feels melted water slips through the thick layer of his coat, and despite himself, despite the situation he is in or the unfortunate news that still has his heart racing way too fast, he laughs.

It's short-lived though, as he stands back up, his hands digging into wet mud. He wipes them on his black waistcoat and proceeds around the trees, until he can step in the streets. The sun has barely broken out from the horizon, and at such an hour very few people were outside, especially not in the posh street Louis lives. Maybe in Whitechapel, in the poverty-ridden streets, women and men are already working hard, trying to earn a living that can barely be considered as proper. He progresses further down the roads, passing by a newspaper boy. He tosses a pound at him, shaking his head when the thin boy goes to protest, _it's too much!_ or when he tries to hand Louis several, freshly-printed newspapers.

The sheets in Louis' waistcoat burn his skin. He offers a brief smile at the boy.

"Keep it," he says, then he takes off to the other side of the street. His hands are deep within his coat pocket, searching for a bit of warmth. Shadowless figures hurry along him, puffs of tobacco-infused smokes curling up in the air, mixing up with the fog. Most of them are off to their work, either in the Parliament or in some well-known business, and Louis knows he looks like most of these important men, although if only they knew where he was really going...

As he breathes out, he can see the remaining evidence of his heart still beating fading away up to the skies, and gradually the clouds grow thicker, darker, the sunlights barely breaking out from its trap. Louis has no idea how long he's been walking, but as he progressively leaves the posh boroughs and steps into destitution, his aching feet are trivial details that his brain can't pick up, too focused on looking around at the shocking reality. It's so obvious that he has stepped in a whole different world.

Refuse stinks up the gutters, the tall and prestigious mansions he's used to, give up their places for shabby houses piled together like nesting rats. Poverty-stricken people are curling up against the walls, their blackened skin as soiled as their surroundings. Dogs barks in the distance, first in rebellion, then in pain as someone beats the poor animal into a pliant, bloodied mess. Louis sticks out like a sore thumb in his thick, expensive leather boots and perfectly tailored waistcoat, but he keeps his eyes straight up, and doesn't let his emotions get the best of him, not when he sees from the corner of his eyes a man swing his fist against the delicate face of a woman, and not when somewhere, in a dark alley, a child screams in horror.

Louis doesn't pretend to know Nick Bennett, but he's been around the boy long enough to be able to tell with confidence, that Nick Bennett would have never, _never_ shown even the tip of his nose in the East End. Nick is too attached to his Italian wine or French cheese, too caring of how he looks, of whether his hair is perfectly styled over his head, to even think of leaving Marylebone. While Nick has enough stomach to cut through dead animals, Louis has never seen him ace properly any autopsies, his heart too fragile. The only reason Nick still attended Harrow School was his fat bank account, and it wasn't a secret.

Needless to say, just _seeing_ the state in which the East End has ended would have been enough to cause Nick a heart attack.

So no, Nick wasn't lurking in the poor streets of Whitechapel last night. He was _dragged_ there.

This is the easiest assumption Louis can make. He needs to see the body to be sure that he's dealing with a career murderer, and that Nick had fallen within the wretched hands of a new Jack the Ripper. A shiver runs down Louis' spine as the word goes around his brain. Jack the Ripper. He wants to puke.

The murder took place somewhere around Mitre Square. He makes his way there, glancing every once in a while over his shoulder to make sure no one is following him. He doesn't know why, but he feels like he's being watched.

It's relatively easy to find the police. Strong black horses wait off the side as police men talk to the few residents of the borough. The crime scene has been sealed off so that no one can come too close, but Louis still walks to one of the inspectors. His blond hair and pearly white skin stands out against the greyish area, and Louis watches for several seconds as the inspector seems to get lost in his own brain, trying to figure out what kind of monster has been released in this giant labyrinth of crumpling buildings.

"Inspector," Louis says, coming up next to the tall, blond man, who visibly startles as he snaps his head towards Louis. He narrow his pale blue eyes.

"You boy has no business being 'round here," the inspector snaps, and Louis hums. Scottish, then. It must be more serious than Louis thought if the Scotland Yard has been called.

"I'm a student of Mr. Styles," Louis begins carefully, producing his student card as evidence. Before becoming a forensic teacher, Harry worked for several years for the Scotland Yard, examining the corpses and doing the autopsies. He is well-known in his field, and respected, and Louis can remember, clear as day, the admiration he felt when Mr. Styles first set foot in their classroom. Louis has learnt so much from Harry, and will forever be glad that he got to meet such an incredible man. If the inspector he's talking to has any credibilities, then he sure knows who Harry Styles is. Having worked with murders, Harry had decided appointing complex crimes as assignments, and the Scotland Yard has never shown any hostility towards the practice.

The inspector glances down at the card, and huffs. "Tomlinson, huh?"

Louis smirks. "Hope your morning tea was fresh enough, Inspector..."

"Graham," he sighs, eyeing Louis in slight distaste. "Do you wanna know my opinion on Mr. Styles?"

Not particularly, but if Louis has to play nice to coax the information out of Mr. Graham, then so be it. The inspector snorts, rubbing his temples as if a headache were blossoming already just from the few words Louis has muttered.

"He's a massive pain in my fucking ass," inspector Graham grumbles, but then he chuckles, and Louis is starting to seriously worry that the Scotland Yard has appointed a lunatic to the cases. He crosses his arms and waits for inspector Graham to cooperate, which he finally does as he turns his body to face Louis properly, giving the shorter man his undivided attention. "What can I do for you, young man?"

Louis squares his shoulders, glancing to the side at the dark alley, where Nick was killed. His hands twitch by his sides as he spots a thin pool of blood, barely visible against the dark cobblestone street. Nick has barely bled, then. He stores the information in his brain and focuses back on Inspector Graham.

"I am investigating," inspector Graham raises an eyebrow at the word, but Louis ignores him and continues. "The death of Jamie Pouldron, and also the death of Nick Bennett, which I know are linked to one another. Is it really a career murderer we're dealing with?"

Louis knows Inspector Graham is dying to tell him to stop snooping around, searching for information that has nothing to do with him, but because Harry has technically set his focus on the murders, Graham can't do anything but relent the answers to Louis' questions.

"Yes," he begins, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "Usually, two murders aren't enough to say for sure that it's indeed a serial killer who is behind these atrocities, but... the distinguishing pattern that can be seen in the way these two men were killed, is quite enough."

Louis nods his agreement, having himself concluded quite rapidly that the hands that killed Jamie Pouldron were the same ones who had killed Nick. Louis takes a tentative step closer to the scene of murder, his eyes fixed on the red patch on the ground. He imagines Nick, laying face first, or on his back, on the cold ground in the dead of the night, eyes vacant.

"Has anyone seen the murderer?" He wonders aloud, glancing back at Graham who has lit up a cigarette. He shakes his head.

"No," he sighs, blowing out the thick smoke. "To be honest, it doesn't surprise me. Jack the Ripper was never caught, although all fives murders attributed to that son of a bitch had taken place within a mile of each other, here in Whitechapel. The people here don't care for what lurks in the shadows. They're much more occupied with surviving the night from the bugs-ridden places where they sleep. These people, they don't look out of their windows when there's so much shit going on from within already."

Graham gestures with his head to the cigarette in his hand, holding it out for Louis to take. He politely declines and starts to type his foot against the ground, feeling oddly on edge.

He needs to see the body.

"Where is Nick's body?" He asks, watching as Graham ignores a police man, who is trying to get his attention. There's an unreadable expression on his face as he gazes at Louis, and Louis holds his ground, knowing fully well that Inspector Graham has an idea of exactly why he's asking that question, and what he is going to do with the answer. Perhaps he's more perspective than Louis gave him credits.

"In a coffin," Graham's eyes don't leave Louis. "In a church."

Louis has to hold himself back from sighing in frustration.

"Which church?" He huffs out, glancing at a horse as it passes by.

"You tell me, posh boy," is what Graham says as he lights up another fag.

Then it hits Louis like a ton of bricks.

Nick's body is in St Paul's Cathedral.  
  


-

The bells don't ring as Louis crosses the road, craning his neck to be able to look at its dome, a sight that is magnificent even to Louis, who has abandoned religion a while ago when he became a man of science. Police men are spread out, supervizing the people that walk by, and Louis hesitates for a second before he makes his way to the entrance, pushing the in-between open wooden door just enough for him to slide his lithe body through. The cathedral's interior is stunning, and at any other time Louis would have taken his time looking at each and every single paintings, carvings and statues, but his attention is instantly stolen by the coffin he can see resting at the other end of the long nave, near the altar.

A lot of people are there, tears drying up on their cheeks, hands stuck into a prayer in front of them. Louis slides in the nearest empty seat, his hands sweating as he spots Nick's parents up front, looking devastated. A pang of guilt hits him. To say that only yesterday he wanted to stab Nick. He can't help but find it odd that Nick died after revealing to both Louis and Harry that he knew they were in a relationship.

But it _can't be,_ he tells himself. It must be some twisted coincidence, he keeps repeating, like some kind of mantra he tricks himself into believing is true. His throat clogs up as emotions fight to break out of their confine in his heart, but he doesn't let them show on his face, keeping it neutral and blinking back down the tears. He has to detach his brain from his heart or else he won't be able to work properly or worse, important details might slip through his fingers. He knows his assignment only requires that he finds out _how_ Jamies, and as a consequence Nick, died, but the murders seem to hit too close to home, and in the midst of the frenzy he has made up his mind to find out _who_ is the murderer.

Louis jumps as a body slides next to his, and his racing heart instantly slows down when he glances up at Harry's devilishly handsome profile.

"You scared me," he whispers, being careful to keep his voice extremely low, knowing just how much the walls of the cathedral echo the words that are muttered in secrets. A smile twists Harry's expressionless face, and his green irises meet Louis' blue ones.

"It wasn't my intention," Harry whispers back, turning his focus back to the priest's prayer. Louis, on the contrary, keeps his eyes exactly where they are, his fingers twitching with the need to reach out and caress Harry's stubbly cheek. He doesn't, though. Instead he can't help asking himself, what is Harry doing here?

With his jaw tightening, Louis snaps his attention back to the priest, trying to keep his voice under control. "Were you following me, Harry?"

Harry doesn't need words to answer; his lopsided smile is quite enough. If they weren't in a church Louis would have started screaming, but since he can't he settles on jabbing his elbow in Harry's side, as hard as he possibly can while not drawing anybody's eyes. The action results in Harry's eyes darkening, and he leans down dangerously close to Louis, his breath tickling Louis' temple. Louis wants to jerk away, wants to remind Harry that they're in church and they should act with more dignity especially since the person lying in the casket was Harry's student and Louis' former... colleague? Classroom buddy? He doesn't know. Acquaintance, at most. 

But instead Harry puts his hand on Louis' knee, sliding it up until it cups Louis' inner thigh, far too close to Louis' crotch. Louis scowls at Harry, circling the older man's hand.

"What were you doing in Whitechapel?" Harry's hand tightens, and it's not painful or anything, but it sends heat to Louis' heart, making it race.

"Whoever murdered Nick, also murdered Jamie Pouldron," Louis reveals, but he doubts it is breaking news to Harry. Harry hums and painfully slowly, remove his hand, instead reaching for Louis' fingers and lacing his own with them. They hold hands while the priest finishes his prayer, while Nick's mother, father and sister stand up to say their eulogies. Tears after tears pour in buckets, and Louis watches in quiet sadness. At one point he's sure his hold on Harry's hand is tight enough to stop the blood flow.

"I need to see Nick's body," Louis gulps, hating himself even more for putting his immorality before anything else. But it must be done. He _needs_ it done.

Harry strokes the back of Louis' hand with his thumb, the only answer he's willing to give. They don't move as slowly, the church begins to empty, strangers walking by them with their red-brimmed eyes cast downward. Louis recognises some of them, having met these people at tea parties, others he has never seen before, but he knows every single person present are members of the elite. Louis avoids looking at any of them lest they'd recognise him, but it's a relief when every soul move along without as much as a glance towards him.

Louis is about to stand up, frowning as strong pallbearers appear, and Harry holds him back. They grab the coffin, put it on their shoulders and slowly begins walking out of the cathedral. 

"Not now," Harry tells him, finally standing up once only them remain, the priest having walked away. Louis follows Harry wordlessly, his mind working to figure out what the hell Harry means, and as he glances back at the mounted cross, he sees Jesus Christ's stern face staring back at him, and he can't help but shiver, oddly feeling judged. The cold breeze of outside does nothing to bring some sense into him, and lest he'd grab Harry's hand in plain daylight, he forces his hands into his pockets, his chin tucked to his chest, his thoughts getting the better of him.

"Who killed you?" Louis slowly whispers, stopping when he spots the black carriage that would take Nick's coffin to West Norwood cemetery. Black stallions were standing, looking at the measly humans in silent pride. On the streets sobbed Nick's sister, her bosom rising up and down, her little body jerking in emotional pain. Louis feels Harry standing next to him, assessing the scene with cool indifference. If only Louis could do that with as much ease. It would help him a great deal, not having to deal with the shame, the guilt, the pain. The sadness. 

As the carriage starts to move, Louis sends a silent apology to the wind, letting it carry the words to the dead, because soon Louis will be upsetting the everlasting sleep into which Nick has fallen.


	5. "Who fill'd With lust and violence the house of God."

The flowers are dead, the stones are cold, the statues are emotionless, and Louis stands alone amongst the empire of trampled souls. There's a shovel in his hand, held tight between his glove-covered fingers. As he moves slowly between the dressed tombstones, his boots make slight noises as the snow crunches underneath his soles. It sounds so loud in the silence of the night, yet perhaps if Louis tries hard enough, he might hear the screams of the dead bodies under the soil, and maybe even the demons laughing in their shadowed corners, thinking Louis is the devil himself.

Nick's tombstone blends in with the other ones, but looking further down Louis sees the withering, frost-bitten flowers, the only difference from the other tombs whom relatives have long since stopped bringing spots of colour to such desolation. Louis stops at the bottom of the slightly snow-dusted mud, his digits shaking around the weapon he is holding. It might not be a knife, or a gun, or anything deadly, but what he is about to do might as well be considered as murder.

Disturbing the dead is something Louis has done countless of time. He has made corpses whose souls have long since disappeared his instruments, but all those times he spent doing autopsies don't feel half as bad as digging up a body from its rightful place. But despite the guilt that's eating away at his guts, he stills raises the shovel, still stabs it in the soil, and still begins digging. He's putting on a show for the other dead people, and he can feel all of their disapproving stares. He doesn't let them deter him from his work, and he keeps throwing softened mud over his shoulder, a dark swell appearing before his two eyes.

A raven croaks in the distance.

His shovel hits something hard, and drawing in a sharp breath through his frozen nose, Louis kneels down, grabbing one side of the coffin-sized hole while leaning over, his other arm outstretched, to try and grab one handle of the polished wooden casket. 

It's incredibly heavy, and Louis nearly breaks his arm trying to heave it up. In the end he has to use both hands to pull the coffin out of its castle of worms and soil, dragging it across the snow. His legs fail him for a moment, and he hits the ground painfully, his chest rising up and down in an alarming rate. He's panting and bids of sweat have managed to break out from his skin despite the cold. He wipes them away, then standing back up, he looks down at the cross that stares up at him.

 _Here goes nothing,_ he thinks, then he pulls the heavy top of the coffin off, revealing Nick's unmoving face. He is clad in a perfectly tailored suit, his hands crossed over his chest. A single red rose stands out, the only spot of colour besides the black of the suit or the white of the skin. Louis doesn't waste time. His hands plunge into the coffin, and he delicately moves Nick's neck to expose the left side of it.

A gash goes from Nick's ear to underneath the suit's collar, and Louis has to close his eyes to collect his thoughts. The wound looks different from Jamie Pouldron's. Undoubtedly, it holds the same core but Nick's wound looks more aggressive, less... superficial. It is longer, Louis notes, and slightly thicker, not enough to need stitches but still worse than Jamie's. It appears whoever murdered Nick, knew him, and has something against him. It's the only plausible conclusion Louis can draw from the differences he can pick up between both murders, and it seems unlikely that Nick's wound was less elegantly administered just because the murderer happened to be more clumsy that day.

But what if Nick put up a fight? Maybe it is the reason the wound is different? But then again, Nick didn't die from his throat being wounded. Louis looks up at the heavens, sending a silent apology for what he's doing and for what he is about to do. Slowly putting Nick's arms down, he starts to unbutton the waistcoat, then the white shirt, to reveal a pale chest. It is unblemished, and so is the rest of Nick's upper body. No other wounds were inflected, and Louis highly doubts that the murderer attacked Nick's legs.

Louis buttons the clothes, puts Nick's arms the way they were, allows himself to stroke one of the rose's petals. He looks at Nick's face. He looks like he's sunk into a deep slumber, although he will never wake up from it.

It takes a lot of time and strength to put the coffin back down the hole, and to fill it back up with the mud, and it takes even more time for Louis to leave the place, his heart heavy, his eyes brimmed with tears. He bends down and places the bouquet of flowers as they were, and he presses a kiss to his fingers, touching the tombstone with them, sending a kiss that he knows Nick is cursing.

Somehow, Louis can't help feeling that Nick's murder is his fault.

As he slides into the darkness of the streets, he promises to himself to find out how Nick died. Maybe it's the only redemption he is able to appertain. Perhaps it's the only cure for the scars marring his heart, the only way for them to close back and heal, before it's too late. 


	6. "In Courts and Palaces he also Reigns"

Mr. Styles office is both fascinating, and also a source of nightmares. Specimen jars line several shelves, dull, preserved eyes staring deep into Louis' soul. Harry is reading one of his many notebooks, his glasses perched on his long nose. Louis waits in the doorway, his hands behind his back, and he raises a fist and knocks gently on the door, stealing Harry's attention from the leather-bound journal. The frown on Harry's face smooths out, disappearing to leave in its wake a fond expression.

"Lou," he breathes out, his hunched back straightening up. "Come in."

Louis steps fully inside, closing the door behind him. He offers Harry a tiny smile as he plops down in the chair in front of Harry's desk.

"Hi," he says, blushing slightly when Harry's intense eyes fall upon him. "I need a favour."

An amused smirk appears on Harry's relaxed face. "Oh? Well, do tell what it is, dear Louis."

Louis faux-scowls, a giggle escaping his lips. "I need the name of the doctor who did Nick's autopsy."

Harry blinks, his hands coming together in front of his face, elbows on the desk. He studies Louis for a moment, his eyes unreadable, and Louis starts to fidget under the intensity of it all. Then, a slow, beaming smile appears on Harry's face, and unlocking a drawer, Harry produces a file. He quickly skims through the pages, until he stops on one. He nods to himself as he picks up his fountain pen, a piece of paper, and writes something down. With two fingers he slides the clue over, as if he were giving away a pound of opium, and in a way it's exactly what it is. Louis doesn't even look at the name he was given, instead deciding to pocket it. 

"Thank you," Louis takes a deep breath and stands up. "Will I see you tonight?"

Something akin to pain flashes upon Harry's face, but it's gone as quickly as it came. Nodding, Harry blows him a kiss, and Louis walks out of the office with his head held high and not a single emotion twisting his facial features, but deep down, he's confused. What's wrong with Harry? Probably nothing, if he's being honest. He tends to dramatize everything and over-analyse. He calms down and turns to the right, glancing around to make sure he's alone. Leaning back against the wall, he takes the delicate paper, unfolds it, and lets his eyes fly over the cursive handwriting. 

_Aleksandr Ivanov.  
  
_

-

 _  
_Doctor Aleksandr Ivanov speaks with a strong Russian accent, and he smells strongly of tobacco and jasmine. His blonde hair reaches his shoulders, and when he speaks it’s as if his voice doesn't want to come out. More than once Louis finds himself leaning over the round little table, trying to catch the words the doctor mutters. His lips are chapped, and his glasses are too big for his face, and he takes his tea without milk and with five lumps of sugar (Louis nearly fainted because _five_ lumps of sugar, what the fuck). He's also particularly fond of scones with cranberry jam, since he's on his third one and they've been at the little café for exactly twenty-three minutes and forty-five seconds.

"The moment the body was brought in," he says around a mouthful of scone, bits of it crumbling on the his slacks. "I knew something was wrong. You see, the boy had been dead for maybe two hours, and I came as fast as possible. His injury wasn't enough to cause death."

He stops, loudly slurping up some tea. He then dips his half-eaten scone in the dark brown liquid, bending down and opening his mouth wide to take in his mouth the entire thing. Louis looks away and holds back from sighing.

"As I was saying," Aleksandr takes a napkin and cleans his lips. "The boy had died of blood loss. Couldn't even take a sample of his blood, he was completely drained of it, can you believe it? It's completely nuts since there were no wounds other than that scratch on his neck, which I know for certain was not the cause for the loss of blood. Even on the crime scene, there wasn't a lot of blood on the ground, just a drizzle."

Louis frowns, appalled by what he is hearing.

"Could it be the murderer used a syringe to empty Nick's body of blood?" He wonders, stroking his hairless chin with his short nails.

Aleksandr Ivanov shakes his head. 

"I looked absolutely everywhere, and I mean _everywhere,_ and there wasn't a single hole that would justify that suspicion. Hell, I was ready to shave the boy's head for further examination, but the boy's mother nearly stabbed me with her hat pin. But I can tell for sure that the blood wasn't taken through external extraction. I shaved Jamie Pouldron's head and there was nothing."

It makes no sense. Louis had thought that poison had killed the victims, but if their blood was taken... 

"Thank you, Doctor Ivanov," Louis stands up and reaches across the table to shake the man's hand, ignoring the greasy fingers. He leaves the café barely more satisfied than when he walked in, but he doesn't let it get to him as he navigates through the bustling crowd, gently brushing his fringe out of his eyes. He looks to his left and right then runs across the road, feeling a carriage runs by, making dust rises from the ground. The trip to Harry's house is relatively short, and as he steps in the right street he has to stop, dread slowly filling him.

He whirls around and glances all around himself, his eyes going from women to men, from children to babies, from houses to horses. 

He is sure he is being watched.

But nothing stands out. 

Breathing out, he squares his shoulders and hurries along, practically running to Harry's door. Usually he is a lot more discreet as he makes his way to his teacher's house, the possibility of being seen by a fellow student too great although few of them know where Harry actually lives. He stops in front of the door and is about to knock, when the door swings open, and in he goes.

As the door clicks shut behind him, strong arms wrap themselves around his body and he relaxes completely in the comforting hold, smiling against Harry's chest. The sweet smell of roses reaches him, a delicacy Harry keeps for themselves. It would look odd for a man to wear such a feminine perfume, but Louis adores it on Harry, and often finds himself rubbing his face all over his boyfriend, to steal the fragrance away.

"Hi baby," he whispers in Louis' hair. Louis tightens his hold around Harry, trying to be even closer to the tall body. He always feels safe in Harry's arms, no matter when or what.

Harry leads them to the dining room, the thick curtains drawn closed to offer them a bit of privacy. Louis jumps on the soft couch, struggling out of his coat, too lazy to actually stand up to get it off. He hears a soft chuckle, then a bigger body falls upon his, and a cold nose is pressed to his jugular.

"Harry!" Louis shrieks, trying to push Harry away though he gives up when Harry starts pressing kissed into his skin. "I love you," Louis sighs, glancing over his shoulder into Harry's eyes.

"I love you, too," Harry whispers back, his breath tickling the curve of Louis' ear. "So much."

Louis falls asleep to the rhythm of Harry's beating heart.  
  


-

  
Somebody screams in the dead of the night, the horrifying sound echoing against the red-bricked walls of the dilapidated buildings. Velvet drops of blood drip down to the gutter, and rats scurry away, sensing the danger.  
  


-

  
Anne Marie Jacobson. Louis doesn't read the name aloud, only stares very hard at it. Harry is silent next to him, reading one of the many scientific journals he owns. It comes from a well-known American doctor with an avant-gardist mind apparently.

"Three times in a row," Louis whispers to himself, his eyes looking up at the painting on the wall facing him. It's from an Indian artist that Harry met while on a trip to Bengaluru.

"How?" He says to no one, standing up and pacing the room. These murders are driving him crazy, is the thing. Maybe he should give up. He knows the victims died of blood loss, and wasn't it what Harry wanted from him? Why go to such lengths to solve crimes that he isn't qualified to solve?

But he can't let go, somehow. He _can't._ He glances over at Harry, finding green eyes already on him. Harry removes his glasses, puts them on his bedside table, and snaps his book closed. 

"Sweetheart," he says, and Louis breaks down. Fat tears start to roll down his cheeks, and the moment Harry opens his arms, Louis is jumping in them, Harry's shoulder turning wet from salty tears and mucus.

"Shh," Harry breathes out, gentle, his fingers carding though Louis' hair. "It's alright, it's ok."

"I'm not getting anywhere," he mutters, sobs racking his body, making it spasms. Harry holds him tighter.

"You are," Harry moves them so that they're properly hugging. "Look at me."

Louis doesn't want to, but with two fingers underneath his chin Harry forces his face up.

"Sometimes the biggest clues are right underneath your nose."

Louis frowns and is about to ask Harry what that means, but then Harry drops a kiss to his lips, then to his forehead.

"I have to meet with someone," he stands up, pressing another wet kiss to Louis' lips, coaxing a giggle out of him.

"Ok," Louis says simply, watching with a small smile as Harry goes to the bathroom and comes out smelling of menthol. He dresses up quickly, Louis helping him put on his coat, and with one last kiss Harry is gone, taking with him the single feather of warmth that heated up the room. With Harry gone Louis has nothing to do, and he should walk back home, but he can't bring himself to. The last thing he needs right now is his mother shrilling about the latest royal scandal or his father asking him for the umpteenth time when will he stop with his medicine non-sense.

Instead he stretches his body and goes to the bathroom to washes his face from drying mucus and tears. He yawns and turns on the tap water, bringing his face to the stream and using his hands to splash warm water. It feels amazing, and he uses a towel to dry himself off, his eyes landing on the sink. As if on instinct, he instantly notices something standing out from the porcelain, next to the tap, and he reaches out and touches the darkened spot.

It taints his skin, and with a frown he brings his finger to his nose, jerking away when he smells something metallic.

Blood.

He stands there for several seconds, not doing anything but stare at the blood on his digit. Why is there blood on Harry's bathroom sink? His guts constrict as his vision goes blurry. 

_Sometimes the biggest clues are right underneath your nose._

Louis falls forwards against the sink and promptly vomits. 


	7. "And in luxurious Cities, where the noyse Of riot ascends above thir loftiest Towrs"

Louis doesn't quite know when it begins, but somehow he finds himself looking at Harry. _Really_ looking. When they're in the laboratory and Harry is explaining to a student something they didn't understand, instead of doing his cross-sections and whatnot, Louis finds himself staring at the bags underneath Harry's eyes, which until now he didn't notice, too preoccupied by the murders. 

When Louis wakes up to the frosted sunlight on his face and Harry's arm thrown over his waist, he doesn't turn around and spend his minutes just admiring his sleeping boyfriend. Instead he goes to the bathroom and examines every inch of space, and each time he would come back in the bedroom, his skin several shades lighter, his fingers shaking and red after he had scrubbed them clean of yet another patch of blood. He remembers almost fainting upon noticing blood on Harry's window still.

His suspicion doesn't stop there. It reaches its peak when Louis wakes up to Harry wrapping a bandage around his arm, where a big bite mark can be seen. Harry tries to hide it at first, but then he tells Louis that a dog is the cause for the wound, and Louis doesn't fucking believe him. He smiles and nods and pretends to lay back down, but in his mind he can picture clear as day the human-shaped bite mark.

Every night there is a new murder, and every morning there is blood in Harry's bathroom.

It doesn't take long for Louis to stop seeing Harry as his boyfriend, and more like the Whitechapel murderer. He tries his hardest not to believe it, and he's been looking for all kinds of clues that would prove Harry not guilty, but then he would spot the dark circles, the blood, the darkness within those green eyes. Darkness that, in order to remain tamed, Louis is scared needs to come out every once in a while.

He can't picture his sweet Harry killing these people. He just _can't._

Louis doesn't have nightmares about it, something that surprises him, but he often finds himself trembling in fear at the oddest of time, be it in the middle of the street or while making tea. He's been asked whether he's ill countless of time, and whenever he glances in a mirror, all he sees staring back at him is dead, terrified eyes.

When Louis decides to confront Harry about it, they're bathing in the soft glow of scented candles, and Harry is pouring him a bit of tea and taking out Louis' favourite biscuits.

It makes Louis sick that Harry's hand are capable of doing something so easy, so innocent, and yet when the night falls in and the moon is at its highest peak in the sky, he can takes the life of another human being. Louis has felt these hands on his body, has had the opportunity of witnessing first-hand just how amazing those hands can be. His hand fists the pillow on his lap, and he can't take it anymore.

"Did you kill these people?" He whispers, the words flying out of his mouth before he can ponder over them. The silence that follows is heavy, and slowly, Harry puts back down the pitcher of warm milk, straightening up and letting his eyes fall upon Louis.

Louis waits with his heart beating in his back. 

"How did you come to that conclusion?" Harry asks, his voice dangerously low. Louis shivers, and he has to dig his trembling fingers deeper into the pillow in hope to get them under control.

Although his body is failing him, his voice is more controlled than he expected. "You have bags underneath your eyes, meaning you spend most of your nights awake. Every morning I walk in the bathroom to blood splattered in different corners, where you probably fail to clean whenever you come back in the night. The bite mark," he gulps. "The bite mark wasn't administered by an animal, but by a human. Maybe from one of the victims who had tried to break free from your deadly grasp."

At this point Louis is nearly screaming, and his chest is rapidly falling up and down.

Several emotions flash across Harry's face, and Louis recognises pain, despair, and maybe even pity? Wordlessly, Harry stands up and rounds the table, and the closer to Louis he gets, the faster Louis' heart beats.

He doesn't expect for a gentle hand to cradle the side of his face, or for a kiss to be dropped on his forehead.

"Look deeper, Louis."

He disappears in the shadow, going up the stairs, his footsteps echoing around the house. Louis stays rooted to the couch, watching as the steam raising from the cups of tea slowly fades away.

Jasmine Smith. Claudia Nicols. Abraham Baker.

The names swirl around his head as he cuts in the turkey, struggling to bring his fork to his mouth. His mother is across him, giggling in her napkin, and Nathanael has been looking at him worriedly since he stepped in the dining room of the Tomlinson residence. He feels trapped and he wants nothing more than to break free from whatever prison he's found himself in, but he can't do it without causing a scene. So he pushes down another piece of potatoes, takes another sip of wine, and forces a strained smile on his face whenever his mother's eyes flitter to him.

His father coughs loudly, practically tearing his lungs out. Louis can't bring himself to care.

He's decided that tonight, he will go to Whitechapel and catch the murderer. He will catch Harry before another name is printed across the newspaper tomorrow.

He will have to sneak out of the house and slips unnoticed into the foggy night. He dips a piece of turkey in gravy and chews it emotionlessly.

"Louis, darling," his mother exclaims, and he glances up at her, tilting his head to urge her to go on. "How has been school? You haven't talked about it in quite a while."

Louis clears his throat, putting his cutlery down. "It's... great."

She keeps her gaze on him, expecting more. He doesn't offer anything else, and he finds that the wine gives him a bit more courage, which is why he burns through his third glass, something he never does. Nathanael notices, but doesn't comment on it, which Louis is immensely glad for. When Lord Tomlinson announces he better gets to bed before he passes out forever, Louis innerly sighs, and stands up himself, bowing his head in farewell.

Nathanael is quick to catch on him, his fingers closing around Louis' forearm, holding him back.

"Louis," he begins softly, his eyes soft. "You look ill."

Through all the fuck-ups in his life, Louis manages to smile. "I'm alright, Nat, but thank you for worrying. Just a little bit tired from staying up late to study."

Nathanael nods hesitantly, letting go of Louis' arm, and muttering a low _good night,_ Louis starts to walk again, going up the stairs with heavy limbs. He is scared, absolutely afraid of what he will find lurking in the shadows of Whitechapel, but he knows there are things he needs to do and this is one of them. His bedroom door clicks shut behind him, a soft sound that's entirely too loud in the empty bedroom. He goes to his bed, sits down, and takes his face in his hands.

He doesn't know what he will do, if he catches Harry killing someone. Maybe he will scream. Maybe he will remain silent, the fire burning within himself going out. Maybe he will pass out, and never wake up again. He's not sure he can live in a world where Harry isn't by his side, but then again, are his morals low enough to stick to a murderer's side? Is his love for Harry strong enough to discard the tormented souls Harry wronged?

He doesn't have any answer to any of those questions, but as the clock strikes eleven o'clock, he puts on his coat, his boots, and sneaks out of the house, as quiet as a butterfly. He remembers the excitement and adrenaline coursing through his veins whenever he had to sneak out to play with other kids his age, or meet with Harry in a secluded area, where they could kiss and make love without a single care in the world. Now though, he doesn't feel excitement. There's dread twisting his guts and making his fingers tremble, and his eyes water not from the cold but simply from how scared he is of the answers he might find tonight.

The streets are eerily silent. Police officers sometimes trot by, the horse's hooves being the only sound of the night. Ravens croak, street lamps cast industrial glow on the streets, and Louis stays quiet and remains in the shadows. He takes the same path he took to get to the East-end before, his hands deep inside his coat's pocket, one of them tightly wrapped around the handle of a knife.

He hopes he won't have to use it.

The fog becomes thicker as he creeps closer to Whitechapel, and his heart is beating so fast he's scared the entire borough can hear it. _Thump thump thump._ His shuddering breathes make white-puffs curl up, and Louis has to squint to see better through the gloom. The stank of destitution hits him in the face once again, and he isn't proud of the way his entire body curls up upon itself, jerking sideway as something speeds past him, something soft and wet brushing against his leg. He presses his back against the damp wall, a single tear escaping his eye.

He watches as a cat freezes, watching him with its big, yellow eyes. Then a rat darts out from the shadow, and the cat pounces, running off after the little rodent.

_It's just a cat._

He wants to puke. He takes his knife out and slips it up his sleeve for better access. He starts to walk again, making his steps as light as he possibly can, afraid that the clicking of his heels will wake up the dead, torment the souls, and possibly alert the murderer of his presence.

_The murderer who is possibly your boyfriend._

As biles rises up his throat, Louis doubles over and spits out a yellowish liquid. His stomach feels like it is burning, and his legs threaten to give out. He's never felt the consequences of his fear to this extent before, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The blade he is holding glimmers as one of the very few working street lamps start to flicker, and promptly goes out.

The street is plunged in darkness, but not before Louis catches, in the reflecting blade, what appears to be a pair of glinting eyes.

He swirls around, pressing his back against the wall, the weapon held before him. He waits with his lips trembling, but nothing moves, not a single noise breaks through the darkness, and Louis makes his way further in Whitechapel, but this time he doesn't bother trying to hide his weapon. The place is fucked up, he starts to realize, and rendered even scarier as every single soul has had the right state of mind to flee the wretched, demon-ridden streets of the area. It's hell and Louis has willingly stepped into it.

He realizes slightly too late that his feet have taken him to where Nick was killed.

With the rain the blood on the cobblestones had been washed away, but it doesn't make the horror inhabiting the alleys any less true. He glances around, unable to tell whether he does it to make sure he's well and truly alone, or if he hopes for a group of people to pass by and maybe help him get out of here unharmed.

Water drips down everywhere, the pearls blackened with the coal-infused air. Louis doesn't know why, but he feels weak. He can barely stay on his two feet, and his grip around the knife is slowly losing its credibility. He panics as he has to prop himself up using the wall. His eyelids feel heavy, and the cold has no effect on his skin, or his bones, an odd occurrence since Louis is _always_ cold. He's losing warmth, his body temperature dropping at an alarming rate, and he has no fucking idea of what's happening and more than his body failing him, Louis can tell his heart is slowing down at an alarming rate too.

He's dying.

The noise the weapon does as it falls from his hand to his feet is deafening. He wracks his brain for his medicine lessons, trying to figure out what is happening to him, but as he crumbles to the floor, the wet mud sipping into his coat, he can't come up with anything. 

His vision goes blurry as a dark figure approaches him. A long coat flies behind the shadow, and Louis has just enough time to meet the eyes of Nathanael before he goes blind.

Is this what dying feels like?

He hears a voice calling out, which happens to be the last thing he manages to make out as he goes deaf.

It sounds vaguely as Harry.


	8. "And injury and outrage: And when Night Darkens the Streets, then wander forth the Sons Of BELIAL"

Some people will say that dying is like going to sleep, but first a light practically blinds you as your life unscrolls itself, a bit like a silent motion picture does, and what you cherish the most is presented to you as a last consolation before you step through that light and into the afterlife.

Others will say that death is a painful reminder that human beings are nothing more than souls being born with a countdown over their forehead, a bit like a halo but instead of representing light or darkness, it only serves to remind each and every single human being that they have an expiry date.

Louis wonders, those who were murdered, what do they believe? Death is supposed to be a natural end to all living organism, be it an animal, a plant, an insect, a human. Is having one's life taken by another something that can be included in the natural hazards of life? Is it like being hit by a carriage, the wheels breaking your legs, the houses' hooves cracking open your rib cage? Is it like catching some diseases science has yet to find the cure for, and dying slowly, painfully? 

He has never properly acknowledged death for what it really is.

And he is not sure he ever will.  
  


-

  
_The streets are dark like liquorice, and her hands feel around the wall to find her way back home. She has no idea of why she decided to stay out longer, not after the series of gruesome events that have taken place in the very borough she is standing in. The street lamps never work in Whitechapel. They are here for decorations, and nothing else._

_She knows she is being watched, and she's scared._

_Something glimmers in the night._

_She starts to run, her pants sounding too loud even to her own ears. A figure practically flies around her, like some kind of cat, agile and deadly. Before she can properly understand it, she is being cornered in a dark alley, and a cold breath caresses her frantic pulse._

_She tries to scream but a cold hand presses against her lips, and she is completely hopeless. She tries to kick and scream, to wrench herself free from her tormentor, but soon she grows tired, her limbs failing her._

_Something sharp ghosts over her throat. It feels as sharp as a knife._

_Her eyes go wide in horror as something pierces her skin, going deep into her jugular. She feels her blood being taken from her in large gulps, the hand on her mouth warming up while her own body grows colder. Her face goes slack, her skin turns as white as a frozen moonlight, and her heart stops beating. Her body collapses to the ground, and her eyes remain wide open.  
_

_A knife is pressed to her throat, and a soft little gash is created._

_Whatever took her life, it wasn't the knife.  
  
_

-

 _  
  
_"Look deeper, Louis."  
  


-

  
_Louis meets Harry's panicked eyes with his own confused stare. He doesn't remember getting to Harry's bedroom, and he's sure he went to bed in his own bedroom, after having read and re-read a chapter on leprosy. But he is kneeling on the ground, and there's a bloody knife in between his knees, and there's something warm on his chin. Louis looks up at Harry, scared, begging for him to do something. What happened?_

_Harry approaches him slowly, like a man approaching a scared, starving puppy. Harry bends down and grabs the knife, his face twisting in disgusts. With pain dancing within his green irises, Harry loops one arm around Louis' waist and hoists him up, guiding them to the bathroom. The light makes Louis flinch, and he groans as white spots dance behind his eyelids. Harry slowly lets go of him, and as Louis tries to make the sting go away, he hears water being turned on._

_He blinks his eyes open and looks at Harry, but instead he gasps in horror as he takes in his appearance._

_Dried blood is smeared across the bottom of his face, especially prominent around his lips. His hand flies to his lips, trying to keep in the sob._

_"Harry," he croaks out, his voice giving out under shock. In an instant Harry is by his side, cradling his face tenderly. "What's happening?"_

_The sadness on Harry's face is almost as unbearable as the dread he is feeling._

_"It's no use telling you," Harry sighs shakily, rubbing his thumb across Louis' cheek. "You will forget anyway."_

_Louis shakes his head while Harry starts unbuttoning his coat, then his bloody waistcoat, then his mud-stained trousers, getting him naked. He tries to beg for some explanations, but Harry remains silent as he gets Louis in the bath tube, filled to the brim with hot water. Louis is like a puppet in Harry's hands as his boyfriend rubs the blood away, his touch so gentle but his eyes blank._

_"Harry," Louis' voice breaks, and tears gather in Harry's eyes, but they don't fall._

_They don't fall as he dries Louis with a fluffy towel. They don't fall as he guides them to the bed, and they don't fall as Harry tucks Louis in, sliding behind the terrified younger man, drawing Louis closer to his body._

_Louis goes to sleep quickly, the exhaustion his escapade caused too much. But Harry? Harry doesn't sleep a wink._

_And when dawns breaks, he gently slides out of bed, puts on warm clothes, and steps out of the house. The streets aren't busy, but he makes use of the time to fetch some groceries and clear his head. Exhaustion can be read by the prominent bags underneath his eyes. He hopes he'll get a bit of sleep in the day._

_He doesn't come back home until he spots a newspaper boy waving a newspaper frantically in the air. Gulping, Harry buys one and hurries to his house, not because he wants to make it there before Louis wakes up, because he knows Louis will sleep like the dead for several more hours, but because he wants to be away from privy eyes once he unrolls the newspaper and reads the horrors of the night._

_He sets the groceries down on the table, and draws a chair from it to sit down, knowing fully well that once the words will be out, his knees will give up all remaining strength._

_He spreads out the newspaper. The sheets are still hot, and the ink is so fresh they stain his fingers. His eyes dance over the paper, and he has to close them and bite down on his bottom lip, which has started trembling. His fingers grow cold._

Anne Marie Jacobson was found dead in the East-end.

_"Oh Louis," he sobs to himself, pressing his fingers against his temples. "What have you done?"_

_He stays there for a whole hour, unmoving, unspeaking. Then he stands up, walks up the stairs with the newspaper rolled up under his armpit. He pushes open the door and stops in the doorway, allowing himself a few seconds to enjoy the sight before him. Louis is wrapped up in his sheets, and the frosted sunlight falls on his golden skin. Harry loves him so much, it_ hurts. _Literally._

_He sighs and puts the newspaper on the bedside table, knowing that Louis will wake up and see it._

_And Harry hopes, with every single flutter of his heart, that Louis will remember.  
  
_

-

**_"Did you kill these people?" He whispers, the words flying out of his mouth before he can ponder over them. The silence that follows is heavy, and slowly, Harry puts back down the pitcher of warm milk, straightening up and letting his eyes fall upon Louis._ **

**_Louis waits with his heart beating in his back._ **

**_"How did you come to that conclusion?" Harry asks, his voice dangerously low. Louis shivers, and he has to dig his trembling fingers deeper into the pillow in hope to get them under control._ **

**_Although his body is failing him, his voice is more controlled than he expected. "You have bags underneath your eyes, meaning you spend most of your nights awake. Every morning I walk in the bathroom to blood splattered in different corners, where you probably fail to clean whenever you come back in the night. The bite mark," he gulps. "The bite mark wasn't administered by an animal, but by a human. Maybe from one of the victims who had tried to break free from your deadly grasps."_ **   
  


-

  
_The feral look in Louis' eyes is the thing Harry fails to see. Harry has never witnessed it, because Louis is always at home when his body starts to die and come back to life as a creature of the night. But Louis wanted to stay over, and who was Harry to refuse?_

_His mistake was to forget that at one point in the night, Louis is dangerous._

_The pain doesn't register to his brain. No, what he notices is that his blood is being drawn from his body in large gulps. He can physically feel it leave his body. He cries out once the pain finally gets to his brain, and he glances down to see Louis biting, hard, on his arm. Louis' eyes are closed in absolute bliss as he drinks Harry's blood, and seeing him so content makes Harry want to give in completely, and welcome death for Louis' pleasure._

_He doesn't, though. He doesn't want to die._

_Despite his heart aching, Harry grabs Louis by the air and pulls, hard, wincing when Louis doesn't let go, though he stops sucking to glare up at Harry._

_Harry's breath gets knocked out of him when he sees that Louis' eyes are glimmering red._

_"I'm so sorry, baby," he mutters brokenly, using his fingers to open Louis' jaw and wrench his arm away._

_For a few seconds, Louis looks at him with nothing but hunger. But then his eyes flash blue, that lovely blue colour Harry adores, before going back to red._

_Before Harry can do anything about it, Louis is jumping out of his window, and taking off through the fog and into the darkness._

_Harry looks down at his bleeding arm, cradling it to his chest. He know already that whatever lie he will tell Louis in the morning won't work, not when Louis is such a clever person._

_The routine is the same afterwards. Louis comes back through the window with blood on his face. He doesn't remember anything, and he's so scared and confused that Harry has to endure the heartbreak all over again. He washes Louis in the bathroom, tries to clean both Louis and the bathroom as best as possible of all blood, then he walks them to the bed. Louis goes to sleep immediately, Harry stays awake, unable to close his eyes, and in the morning he goes to fetch the newspaper._

_This time, her name is Jasmine Smith._


	9. "With solemn touches, troubl'd thoughts, and chase Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain, From mortal to immortal minds."

Something soft strokes his cheek, and he leans into the touch. Then a kiss is pressed to his temple, and a tender voice whispers in his ear.

"Wake up, Lou."

And he does. His blue eyes blink open, and the first thing he notices is the lovely Indian painting. Then, he glances over his shoulder, and his smile drops.

"What have I done?" He whispers brokenly, a hand reaching up hesitantly to Harry's face. Harry's larger hand grabs his, and he brings it to his lips, being so gentle with Louis that tears instantly fall down over his cheeks.

"I'm a monster," he sobs, and Harry shakes his head, wiping the salty drops with his thumb. Everything is coming back to Louis, and he has no idea of how he manages to keep breathing when every single memory is a stab to his heart.

A hand cradles his face and turns his head. He meets Harry's eyes again.

He can't help himself from sobbing again as he takes in the bruise on Harry's face. It's prominent, and it looks painful, and Louis knows he's the reason for its existence. He remembers dying, and coming back to life as a monster, and trying to attack Nathanael except Harry was there to hold him back.

Louis killed a man yesterday night. And he remembers every single second of it. He remembers running away from the people he loves the most, from his brother and lover, and finding instead a drunkard to sink his teeth into. It took him less than two minutes to drain the man, who was twice his size, of blood.

But what he can recall the most is the hunger. It was as if his entire body had been set on fire from within, as if molten lava had been poured down his throat. And then he also remembers the relief he felt the moment a drop of blood found his tongue. The utter ecstasy he experienced as it cured the excruciating pain he was in. He wasn't in control of his body; his body was in control of his brain.

"I don't understand," he admits, his voice small. Harry is holding him tightly, as if afraid Louis might bolt out of the window and never come back.

Louis kinds of want to do that. He wants to hurl his body off a bridge, and never comes back from it.

He is a murderer. He is _the_ murderer. 

"I will explain," Harry makes them get up, and Louis has no choice but to follow. He goes pliant in Harry's arms, letting himself be washed and dressed. All the while Harry showers him in kisses and tenderness, and it helps ease the pain out. He lets Harry take away the pain with his lips, and his hands, and the love that shines within his green irises. He lets himself be lullibied in a hope he's not sure truly exist.

He lets himself enjoy, while he still can. 

-

  
"It's difficult to explain," Harry sighs, rubbing his cheek against Louis' chest and humming when Louis keeps playing with his wet, curly hair.

"If you don't do it, I will go crazy," Louis admits, his eyes stuck to the white ceiling. Harry sighs even louder, but begins to speak, his voice low and soft.

"I don't know where the disease you suffer from comes from," Harry' voice catches on the word 'disease', and Louis flinches. "But all I know is that it causes you to die at one point in the night. The bacterias in your body make you come back, though, and they crave for blood. It's why you've been going out every night to find it. Your body can't produce blood on its own anymore, and the bacteria that has nested in your body has damaged your heart, and repeatedly consume all the blood in your body. It's a circle, from what I've gathered. You drink blood, you're fine throughout the day while the bacterias consume the blood, then you don't have any blood left in your system, and your heart stops beating and you die. But the bacterias remain alive, and they use their strength to get you up and running to seek blood. Etcetera, etcetera."

"This is so fucked up," Louis wants to puke, he wants to crawl out of his wretched body. Harry looks at him, a frown on his face.

"We can find a cure," Harry stresses out, sounding earnest. "I took samples of your blood, or well, of the blood you consumed, and I was able to see the bacterias. They are like microscopic worms. I've been doing researches and contacting the best doctors, looking for people with the same disease. You're fine, love."

Louis scoffs. "I am killing people to remain alive. I am not fine!"

"But you can try animal blood," Harry sits up, a smile blossoming on his face. "Blood is blood. You can sustain yourself on mammal blood, Louis. I just needed you to stop forgetting what happened so that we can progress into a treatment."

Louis wets his lips, frowning. "Why was I forgetting, though?"

"Because you were in some kind of shock, Louis. Somewhere along the way, you wanted to forget at all costs what you did at night. This triggered your selective memory, and receiving the blood you so needed also acted as a kind of stimulus for your brain, except it was so strong that part of your nervous system got overwhelmed and, as a way to defend itself, made you purposely forget. When you went out yesterday night, you kind of broke the routine your brain got used to, and once you were faced with the truth, once you were lucid enough to undergo the process of dying, and rebirth, did your nervous system adapt and as a result, it stopped modifying your memories."

Louis nods. He can’t even believe this is all possible, that this has become his reality. He’s afraid of being alone, and he can't help himself from jumping into Harry's arms, burying his face where Harry smells the strongest.

"Will I be alright?"

Harry kisses the top of his head.

"You will, my love."  
  


-

  
Suitcases fall on the ground, creating loud noises as they mix up with random chatters and the impatient huffs. Louis smiles to himself as he leans back against the wall, his gloved hands tight around the handle of his own bag, filled with clothes and books. Harry seemingly appears out of thin air, holding two cups of tea.

Well, one is tea, the other one not so much, judging by the single red drop of blood smeared on the white plastic. Louis is glad Harry found solid white cups, and Louis reaches for the cup filled with animal blood, taking a sip and humming. He can feel his heart starting to beat faster, at a more regular and natural rate.

"Hope there's enough sugar in there, my dear," Harry teases, faking a posh accent. Louis rolls his eyes.

"I'm afraid there's too much milk, but thank you for trying."

Harry's pinky brushes against the back of Louis' hand, and this time if his heart starts to beat faster, it has nothing to do with the blood.

Steams curls up in the air as they are informed their train is ready for departure. Harry pats his back pocket, making sure their tickets are still there. 

"North Yorkshire, here we come," he hums to himself, gesturing for Louis to walk in front of him. They reach the train without any difficulty, moving along the crowd that has gathered there. The doors open and people start to fill in.

"I am sitting by the window," Harry tells Louis, winking. Louis raises an eyebrow.

"I usually sit by the window, though," Louis comments, batting his eyelashes, trying to make Harry gives in. All Harry does is smirk.

"Well," he chuckles, taking a sip of tea. "You may have to sit in my lap."

Louis blushes and shakes his head, laughing in his sleeve. As he takes his first step aboard the train, he can't help but think that Harry was right.

He will be alright. Probably not now, nor tomorrow, nor in two years from now, but he knows he will be.

After all, it takes time to heal. 

**Author's Note:**

> omfg wtf i'm going to cry! I wrote this in two days, it took over my whole life. can't feel my fingers after writing this! i hope you guys liked it, don't hesitate to leave a comment, especially on whether you found out Louis was the murderer before it was revealed?
> 
> thank you for reading, guys. it means so much to me <3  
> and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!


End file.
